


Mending

by inkreservoir



Series: Divorced Sasuke AU [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Divorce, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkreservoir/pseuds/inkreservoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarada spends her first weekend at Sasuke's house since her parents got the divorce. Part of the Divorced!Sasuke AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sarada sighs at her calendar after she finishes getting dressed for the day, wishing that she had the ability to travel through time to Monday or back to yesterday. She’d been lucky the last few months while her father was looking for a house, because without a house she couldn’t stay with him, but he’d moved in Tuesday and that meant this was the first weekend she’d have to spend with him since the divorce.

She grabs the bag with some of her clothes and goes downstairs to leave for Mitsuki’s house. She’s hoping she can convince him and Boruto to train with her for a while so she doesn’t have to think about this. Sarada had been up late yesterday messaging Chouchou about it, and while Chouchou was a close friend, she didn’t always seem to… keep up with Sarada’s train of thought.

“Where are you going?” Sarada’s mom’s voice stops Sarada just before she leaves the house. Sarada turns.

“Training,” she answers.

“Oh, okay,” Mom says. “Are you coming back here after, or…?”

Sarada looks at the floor. “I was thinking I’d stay out long and then go straight to, um…”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” her mom walks over to Sarada and crouches down to eye level, even though Sarada isn’t really short enough for it to be necessary anymore. “Can I get a hug before you go?”

Sarada nods, and Mom pulls her close. Her hair smells like cherry blossoms, and Sarada wraps her arms around her mom too, her eyes starting to sting.

“I don’t want to go,” she murmurs. “I wanna stay here with you.”

Mom pulls back and her eyes are wet too. She puts her hands on Sarada’s shoulders.

“This’ll be good,” she says. “You and your dad will get a chance to know each other better.”

“He never cared about getting to know me before,” Sarada said sharply. “The only reason—the only reason I forgave him for that was because—“

She cut herself off. The last time she’d hurt her mom’s feelings out of anger, their house had come down, and they definitely wouldn’t be able to afford it now that Sarada’s dad was out of the picture.

Except he wasn’t out of the picture, and that was the problem.

Her mom hugs her again. “Did you eat breakfast?” she asks softly. Sarada shakes her head.

“I—I forgot to.”

“It’s okay,” Mom says. “Sit down, I’ll get you something to eat.”

Sarada sniffs, nodding, and leaves her bag by the door. She sits quietly at the table while her mom opens the pantry and pulls out the egg carton. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and Sarada pulls it out.

_Do you know what tone you want to cone? I’m free all day so do whatever is conveniently for you._

Sarada sighs at the text and the phone vibrates again. 

_I typed “time” and “come” and “convenient”. I don’t know why it did that._

She rolls her eyes and shoves it back in her pocket. Her father still doesn’t get autocorrect, and last year she might’ve found that endearing but now it's just annoying.

“Was that...?” her mom asks and Sarada nods.

“He still can’t type,” she scoffs.

Mom laughs lightly. “Old-fashioned as always.”

Sarada looks away from her.

The way her Mom talks about Sarada’s father now isn’t that much different from how she used to talk about him. The old affection is still there, it’s just sadder.

Sarada doesn’t know what to think of that.

After breakfast, she hugs her mom again and heads outside, deciding she’ll make her dad wait until she finds out whether or not Mitsuki and Boruto want to train to respond to him. Normally she’d just text them, but she wants the extra time it’ll take to walk to their houses, and they’ll be more likely to agree if she just shows up than if she asks through a text.

Mitsuki lives by himself in an apartment in the middle of the Village, and when no one answers her knocking Sarada isn’t surprised. Mitsuki’s rarely home, preferring to wander the Village in his free time instead.

Oh well. She turns and heads for Boruto’s house, which is close to Mitsuki’s.

When she knocks, she hears loud footsteps running around before Boruto’s mother opens the door.

“Hello Sarada,” she says, smiling at her. “Are you here for Boruto?”

Sarada nods.

“Ah,” Hinata says. “I don’t think he’s home right now, he said something about shopping this morning, but I’ll check for you.”

“Thank you,” Sarada says. Boruto’s obsession with shopping is a little ridiculous since he ends up wearing the same clothes every day no matter how much he buys.

Himawari pokes her head out from behind the wall of the corridor.

“Hey,” Sarada waves at Boruto’s sister. Himawari studies her, then steps out.

“Hi!”

“What’re you up to?” Sarada asks and Himawari holds out what looks like a bundle of sticks glued together.

“I’m building,” Himawari says. “It’s gonna be a tower.”

“How come you have them glued up like a bundle, then?” Sarada couldn’t help asking.

“Because it’s a tower,” Himawari cocked an eyebrow at her.

“So there’s not gonna be a floor or anythi—“

“Boruto isn’t here,” Himawari’s mom steps back out. “Oh, sorry, were you talking?”

“I was showing her my tower,” Himawari explained.

“Nice, right?” Hinata smiles at Sarada. Sarada shrugs.

“I don’t get why it’s a bundle with no walls or anything.”

“I’m gonna poke the middle out,” Himawari sighs. “I need it this way so that it can be a cylinder. It’s hard to make a cylinder out of sticks.”

Sarada laughs. “Fine, fine, I get it now.”

“Good,” Himawari says.

Sarada looks up at Boruto’s mom. “Since he’s not here I’ll be on my way.”

“You can try messaging him,” Hinata suggests. Sarada nods.

“Thanks,” she says. Hinata nods at her and Sarada leaves.

She pulls out her phone and her finger hovers over Mitsuki’s name, then she pulls it away and scrolls to a different name. If Boruto’s shopping he isn’t going to want to train anyway.

 _I’m free all day too,_ she texts her dad.

He replies three minutes later.

_Okay, 1 st you soon._

Sarada rolls her eyes.

_I meant “see”._

He wouldn’t be having these problems if he’d actually kept in contact with Sarada when he was away and learned how to use a cell phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasuke's apartment is small, Sarada doesn't know why she keeps deciding to hang out with him over her actual friends she doesn't dislike, and rude people are as prone to getting tea as normal people.

She could’ve just gone home. Her mom would still be there, they could watch television or something until Sarada couldn’t justify delaying her father anymore. She could pretend she's hungry and help with cooking. Could meet up with Boruto and drag him into a bookstore and let him chatter about brands. There are a million things she could’ve done instead of texting her father back and walking the way to his apartment, if she’d only thought of it sooner.

This building doesn’t have an elevator, so she climbs the stairs to the fourth floor and tries to silence the thought that she did think of it sooner, that she knew from the start she could’ve done anything else and decided to come here early instead.

Sarada knocks and the door opens less than ten seconds later. 

She tilts her head back. In this hallway with the low ceilings he looks taller than he normally does—or maybe she just doesn’t remember accurately. They look at each other wordlessly for a few moments before her father takes a step back.

“Come in,” he says, and Sarada feels her stomach drop for some nonsense reason. She steps into his apartment. 

It’s… much smaller than the house she lives in with her Mom. The living room is right beside the door, and she can see the kitchen from the front door. There’s two doors on the wall opposite her, and that’s it.

Her father closes the door and walks over to sit on one of the couches. They’re blue and the room smells like new furniture. She hovers by the door unsurely and he motions for her to sit on the other couch, so Sarada walks over and slowly takes a seat.

Sarada can hear her heart beating in her throat. Her dad is just looking at her. She turns away from him to look into the kitchen. 

It seems spotless. Did he clean it for her? Or is it always like this, even though he lives alone?

“So,” her dad breaks the silence. “How are you?”

She looks back at him. How is she? Were the next two days going to be like this?

“I’m fine, I guess,” Sarada shrugs.

“You guess?”

She sighs. What is he even doing, trying to be a father to her now after so many years? 

“I don’t exactly want to be here.”

The words spill from her lips before she can stop them, and she turns sharply to look at him. 

Her father looks down but his expression stays the same. “… That makes sense.”

She swallows and presses her hands into the stiff couch cushion, clenching and unclenching her fists against the fabric. She should apologize—she wants to apologize, to say that she didn’t mean it—but her lips don’t move and she curses herself. Why does she want to spare this man? Her mother has suffered her sharp tongue before, but now the source of all her anger sits across from her, demanding that she act like his daughter, and she can’t say anything?

He leans against the back of his seat and it only goes up to the base of his neck, so his head hangs backwards a little. Then he stands up.

“Wh—where are you—“

“Let’s go somewhere else then,” her dad says. Sarada’s mouth gapes a little.

He thinks it’s because of his apartment?

“That’s not what I meant,” Sarada says. “It has nothing to do with where—“

“I know.”

She narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s small here,” he says. “The world is out there.”

Really? Poetry?

She pushes herself up. Well, at least there’s a chance she’ll run into Boruto or Mitsuki while they’re out, right?

He unlocks the front door—Sarada hadn’t really noticed that he had locked it before, but it makes her uneasy—and follows him outside.

The heat of the sun warms her skin like little pinpricks, and she has to shade her eyes with her hand as she walks fast to match her father’s pace. She can’t tell if he always walks quickly or if he’s trying to make her struggle.

“Can you slow down?” she asks.

Her father looks back at her. “Oh.”

He pauses to let her catch up.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere,” he says. “Where do you want to go?”

Home, she thinks, but holds her tongue. “Why are you leaving it up to me?” she asks instead. “I really don’t care that much.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“Sarada!” She whips her head around, looking for the source of the familiar voice and sees Chouchou’s father walking over to her and her father. Sarada waves.

“Hi!” she says, glad for the distraction. He’s not with Chouchou or Karui but is carrying grocery bags in his hands. “Need any help carrying those home?”

“Nah, I’ve got them,” Chouji says. It’s only then that he seems to notice her father and stiffens.

“Oh, Sasuke,” he says. “You’re out too.”

“Mm,” Sarada’s father nods. Chouji’s lips flatten in a line.

“You sure you don’t need any help?” Sarada cuts in, reaching for one of the bags in his hand. “Is Chouchou home?”

“She is, yeah,” Chouji says, looking at her.

“In this weather?” Sarada asks.

“Hmm,” Chouji says. “I should ask her if she wants to go to the park or something.”

“Yeah,” Sarada says. “I can help you take the groceries home, and then—“

Her eyes flit to her father, who hasn’t said anything, and she closes her mouth, lets go of the bag she was grasping, and straightens up.

“Um,” she says. “Or… I’m actually busy.”

She looks at the floor.

“What’re you doing, out with Sarada anyway?” Chouji asks her father. Sarada holds her breath, already wanting to take the entire situation back.

“You can go if you want to.”

Sarada looks at her dad, eyes wide. 

Chouji looks back at her. “You should, she’ll be happy to see you.”

Sarada’s shoulders slump. “No, it’s okay. Tell her I say hi, though.”

“Are you sure?”

She looks at her father, who’s looking off in the distance.

“Yeah,” Sarada says.

“Well, okay,” Chouji says. “I’m gonna go home then. See ya, Sarada.”

He walks off.

It’s silent again.

Maybe she made the wrong choice.

“Thanks,” her dad says. “You didn’t have to do that, though.”

“What, did you want me to leave?” she asks. He shakes his head quickly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sarada crosses her arms. She should’ve known. ”Why are you suddenly concerned with me anyway?” she asks. “It never mattered to you before.”

A line creases his forehead and she thinks it’s the first time his face has changed from being blank since she arrived at his apartment. 

“I don’t get why—I don’t get why you want me to care about you now,” she continues, her cheeks warming. ”You never cared, and—“

“Let’s go,” he says. She tightens her fists.

“Let’s go?” Sarada repeats shrilly.

“We’ll find somewhere to sit, and you can ask me your questions there,” he says patiently. 

She bites her lip. “Are you going to answer them?”

“I’ll… answer what I can.”

That’s not a guarantee, but she follows after him with her lips pursed. Sarada isn’t usually very aware of her surroundings, but when she walks with her father it feels like more people look their way, and sometimes they lean into each other and speak in hushed voices. They probably weren’t talking about her, but…

They didn’t normally do this, either.

Her father stops by a tea stand. There’s a bench out front for customers.

“Do you want anything?”

Sarada shrugs and he orders tea for the both of them. They sit at the bench.

“You were asking me questions,” he says after a few minutes of quiet.

“…yeah,” Sarada says. Her face has cooled now and the urge to shout has mostly dissipated.

Her dad takes a deep breath.

“Listen,” he says. “I want you to know that you can always ask me questions.”

Sarada straightens her glasses and takes another sip of tea. “Well, yeah, I know that. Obviously I can.”

“Good.”

“Asking questions doesn’t mean—doesn’t mean getting honest answers, though,” Sarada says. “And it doesn’t mean you won’t get mad at some questions.”

“I will never get mad at you for asking me a question,” he says, not addressing the first part of what she said.

She takes another sip of her tea and looks away from him. “I don’t really care if I make you mad. You make me mad.”

He nods silently and her grip tightens on the cup.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asks. “Doesn’t it have any effect on you at all to know that?”

Her dad is silent. Sarada knew it. He doesn’t even—

“It…” he starts and Sarada cuts off her train of thought. She looks at him. His eyes are closed and his face is tilted toward the sky. There’s trees around and they block the overly bright sunlight. “Bothers me. But it doesn’t matter how I feel about how I make you feel.”

Sarada turns back to her tea and doesn’t answer that.“Why do you want to be part of my life now?”

“Because you’re my daughter.”

“That didn’t matter to you before.”

“You don’t know that.”

She can feel her heartbeat accelerating again.

“Fine then,” she says. “None of your actions give me any reason to think that.”

“Fair enough.”

She finishes her tea and slams the cup down on the bench. For a moment she fears she’s broken it, but the cup is fine.

“What’s the point of you having me on the weekends?” she asks. 

He pauses for a moment, then opens his mouth to answer, but is cut off before he can say anything.

“Oh great, the two Uchiha together, just what this Village needs.”

Sarada has no idea who this person is, but he wears a Leaf Village forehead protector and stands close to the tea stand. 

“Guess we’re gonna have to start worrying about the kid too,” he continues. 

Sarada looks at her father, alarmed. 

“What’s wrong with me being here with him?” she demands when a few moments later her dad says nothing.

“Your kind have only ever hurt this Village, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Here’s your tea,” the owner of the stand gives the man a cup and he pays, then walks away from the stand.

“What was that?” Sarada demands once the man is gone.

Her father doesn’t look at her.

“That’s one of the things I can’t tell you.”

Sarada pulls at her hair. “You can’t tell me why random people are saying that you’re going to make me hurt the Village??”

Her dad is silent.

“Who are you?”

“Sasuke Uchiha.”

It’s the closest thing to a joke she’s ever heard him tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversations are awkward. I meant to update this fic three times a week but it seems like once a week is more within my scope. I'm really busy next week though so we'll see how things go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not much of a shouting match if you're the only one shouting, and Sasuke is a very good planner when it comes to cooking but not much else.

Sarada has always been very aware of the strange tension around her name. The Hokage speaks well of the Uchiha when she's around him, and according to Chouchou her family is famous for succeeding without really trying, but… she can't help thinking that Chouchou's father only told her that because he knows Sarada is her friend. Most people don't say anything directly to her, but whatever inhibitions they'd had before seemed to come down now that he walks with her.

Maybe it's because of the divorce. Sarada's mom is… Well, she's popular. Of course, it makes sense that most of the adults Sarada knows are friends with her mother because she met them through her mother, but those adults are also in high up positions in the Leaf Village, and people look up to them. Her mom was highly instrumental in helping the Hokage bring peace to the Village. It makes sense that a lot of those people would be angry at Sarada's dad for hurting her like this.

But… what did that have to do with the idea that he’d hurt the village?

They return to his apartment two hours later in mostly silence, and he murmurs something about cooking before going into the kitchen. Sarada sits on the couch, occasionally looking up to watch him. It’s different from her mother’s method of cooking, with the hesitation and looking up and asking for Sarada’s input, rummaging through cupboards and thinking of ideas for substitute ingredients they’d forgotten to buy. Sarada’s father’s cupboards are compartmentalized, his refrigerator groups food by type and then by colour. He reaches immediately for whatever ingredient he’s looking for, hardly moving anything out of the way to access what he needs. It must come from the organization, because he’s fast even though it should be taking twice as long, only having one arm to do everything with. His motions are fluid, his eyes focused on the task at hand and he seems so… absorbed, that she doesn't doubt if she attempts to speak to him he won’t even hear her.

The smell is making her mouth water.

Did he ever cook for Mom? Was it any good? Did she eat it because she liked it or did she labor through bland tastes made up for by the deceptive smell? Did he do it a lot? Her father’s image begins to blur as she thinks of her mother, her mother and him, side-by-side…

Didn’t he say that Sarada was the proof of their love?

Her mouth is dry, and she stands, a question burning at her lips and yet not defined enough into words to ask him. Her hands curl into fists. She wants to _hurt_ him; to knock the knife he uses to slowly chop the vegetables from his hand and send it clattering across the floor, to make his eyes widen and to see the glimmer in them fade when they meet hers, to make him see that she _doesn’t_ love him, that she’ll _never_ love him. No matter how much time he makes her spend with him. No matter how meticulously he works to make food for her.

He deserves it. _She_ deserves it.

“Why even bother?” Sarada asks, and her father looks up right away, the knife halts. She presses her lips together, she hadn’t fully expected him to hear her, let alone stop what he was doing.

It doesn’t last. He starts moving again when he’s met with her silence and she can feel her fingernails leaving marks in her palms.

“The only reason you ever cared about me is because you needed a reason to stay with Mom,” she accuses, “Isn’t that what you told me? You said I was your _connection_ , one that you threw away—like it was nothing. Mom still _loves_ you!”

She stops, but only for breath, and he’s still, his eyes fixed on the counter, so motionless one might tip him over with the push of a finger.

“Did you think it was better to just—to just feed me lies?” she continues, using his lack of upset to fuel her own, her voice rising loud enough for the both of them. “To just _use_ me so you could pretend everything was okay?”

He tilts his head up and seems to look behind her; she can see his teeth between his parted lips.

“Mom was—Mom was _there_ for me,” she says. “You _weren’t._ I tried to forgive you for—for _her_ sake, but I can’t anymore!” 

Her father’s eyes shut, his eyelashes flutter and twitch.

 _"Say_ something!” she demands at last, her cheeks coloured and the room too hot for his coldness.

He opens his eyes and finally looks at her. Sarada feels she’s being scrutinized, his eyes taking in _too_ much from her face, and she wonders if she should’ve held her tongue. Beads of sweat roll down her cheek under his studious gaze, and she wishes he’d turn it on anything else in the room.

Finally, he takes a breath, setting the knife neatly aside, before moving around the kitchen counter to take a seat on the couch across from her. His fingers quiver slightly, long and thin, arm resting across his knee.

She trembles too, not breaking eye contact.

“Anything else?”

Sarada wants to scream, her eyes stinging, rising to her feet. Her throat is tight, swallowing feels like a battle.

“Yes!” she exclaims. “I want to know why! I want to know why you _ever_ pretended you loved her if you were just going to leave her alone! I want to know why you said that to _me_! Why does everyone in this village hate you _so much_ except for Mom and the Seventh? Why are you such—such—“

Her father raises his eyebrows.

She raises her shaking fist, trying to contain herself, as if going through the motion of punching him in her head would relieve her of the need to actually do it.

“What use do you have for me anymore, if not to fake your love for my mother?” she demands. “What point is there to pretending you want me for a daughter? I _hate_ you, did you ever consider that? That maybe I don’t _want_ to go through these motions for you and help you live your fake life?” 

His eyes have disappeared behind his hair, his head hanging slightly and she hopes he’s _ashamed,_ but he says nothing, and she wants to pull it all out of his head, every last strand, and she’s never hated anyone _so much_ before, has never wanted to make someone suffer like _this_ before, and he says nothing, he doesn’t even _look_ at her—

“You don’t even _want_ a normal family.”

His neck snaps up and he fixes her in a stare that shuts her mouth, and the room doesn’t have enough air, and his lips move—

“You don’t _know—“_  

He closes it firmly, he looks away again, he stands and he presses his fingers to his eyes and she wonders if he’s trying to erase her existence from his consciousness, as if not seeing her will get rid of the problem that she’s posed for him, he turns around and it looks like he’s going to walk to his bedroom door—

“You’re going to run away from me again?” Sarada asks, but it’s not a question, and he freezes. She can feel the flush in her cheeks receding and becomes aware of the way the air leaves a coolness on her face, her eyes dry because her tears have all made their way to her chin. She rubs her eyes, inhales deeply, and faces her father’s back steadily. “That’s fine. I don't care what you do anymore.”

His hand hovers above the doorknob, then falls to his side, shaking, fingers curling in and out, thumb twitching back and forth.

“No, you’re right.” 

He turns again to face her, and he’s trembling, and she’s still. The lines under his eyes are dark, his eyebrows drawn together, and there’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t reflect the rest of his face. “You’re right… the truth—I shouldn’t have—well…” 

Sarada watches him, silent, her muscles relaxed, a warmth filling her that isn’t anger.

“I shouldn’t have let you be hurt in the midst of all of this. No, I—“ his smile drops, he shakes his head and walks over to her, kneeling to her level, so they’re face to face. “Sarada… I’m sorry.”

Her eyes drift to look at the floor. Is this it? An apology, so she can hold onto it and forget everything?

“Your questions…” he continues. “I want to answer them. But, listen.”

She meets his eyes again.

“I don’t know all the answers,” her father says. “That’s what makes it hard for me to tell you.” He pauses. “You already know this well, but—I’m not perfect.”

“Mhm,” she manages.

He smiles at her. “You don’t have to forgive me, and you don’t have to listen to anything I say if you don’t want to. If you want nothing to do with me, I’ll accept that.”

Sarada bites her lip and he stops smiling, fixing her in a serious stare.

“W—well,” she stammers. “If… if you promise to tell the truth, then…”

She shakes her head to compose herself. 

“I care more about knowing the truth than I do about hating you,” she says decidedly.

He straightens. “I understand.”

He moves back to the kitchen, picking the knife up again. “We’ll talk while I cook.” 

Sarada nods, and realizes that he hasn’t burned anything the entire time they were talking. … he probably _is_ a better cook than Mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sasuke realizes he made the same mistakes as Itachi, how the hell—haha. This was fun to write. Probably gonna wrap it up soon. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasuke finally starts to answer some of Sarada's questions as they walk through the Leaf Village together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a struggle, haha, but I hate it less than I did when I first wrote it so that's good. Answers are finally starting to come out!

They don't end up discussing any of Sarada's questions until after they've eaten and the sun begins to set. Instead, they talk about training, Konohamaru's teaching ability, the warm weather, and they stop talking altogether when her father gestures for Sarada to sit on one of the stools at his kitchen counter for dinner. He's made steamed rice, clear miso soup, grilled saury and simmered vegetables. Sarada wonders when he had time to learn all of it, but her eyes water from the rising steam, mouth salivating from the smell, and once she's taken a bite she doesn't stop until she's finished. She finally looks up when her plate is clear, bowl empty, and when she does he's still eating. She waits in silence, and once he's done he clears the table.

"Can you put the leftovers in the refrigerator?" he asks, and she watches with an eyebrow raised as he starts running water over the plates.

"…You're going to wash the dishes with one arm?"

He glances at her and shrugs.

"You know, I can just do the dishes and you can put the leftovers away, that's probably easier," she volunteers.

"Not really," he says. "With two arms you can hold up the dish containing the food with one and scrape it into a container with the other."

"Oh…"

He squirts soap onto each dish in the sink and scrubs them with the sponge without picking them up, while Sarada pulls out the containers from a cupboard and puts the leftovers away.

"Let's go for a walk," he says when they're done.

They head outside. The sky is streaked with red, the air cooler than it had been when they went out this afternoon.

"You like walks?" Sarada asks, and her father nods.

"I have since I was much younger," he says, and Sarada tries to picture him at her age, like in the photo of the old Team Seven that her mother kept in their house. The same height as her, wearing a blue t-shirt, strolling alone through the Leaf Village for no reason but to enjoy the scenery. Eyes closed because he knows the paths so well. No one bothering him, or saying he's bound to harm the village…

The image disappears. "We were going to talk about my questions," Sarada reminds him.

"Let's talk," he says. "Where do you want to start?"

"Um…" she tries to think back to her earlier rant, but when her eyes flit to his face and she feels a surge of heat, she sighs. Hasn't she gotten angry enough times for one day?

Well, it has to happen eventually.

She takes a deep breath. "Did you ever love my mother?"

Sarada doesn't think it's one of the questions she shouted at him earlier, but it's a decent place to start. If they can pinpoint the issue from the very beginning, then maybe the other problems like his absence and the divorce will start making sense. He says nothing, and after a few moments she looks at him, wondering if he heard her. She's considering repeating herself when he opens his mouth.

"There was a time when she was one of the most important people to me," he says slowly, calculatedly, like he's reading words off a script for the first time and doesn't want to mess it up.

"A time?"

"We were young," her father says. "It was after we were put together on Team Seven." He pauses, focuses on his feet as they walk, then looks up again. "I didn't care for anyone on it at first. My mind changed gradually, and I started to care about Naruto and Sakura deeply."

"The Seventh?"

He nods.

"So you weren't in love with her, then. You just cared about her," Sarada clarifies.

"I didn't 'just' care," he says. "There are different ways to love different people."

"Okay, fine," Sarada pushes on. "Were you ever in love with her? Like, in a romantic way?"

The sound of chirping crickets in the grass seems to get louder, or maybe Sarada just hadn't noticed it before. The sun has mostly set, the last remnants of it a faint teal on the horizon, melding into the rest of the inky blue sky. Her father is silent, and Sarada's stomach twists.

"Well if that's how it was, why did you marry her?" she demands, understanding that he isn't going to admit it aloud. He closes his eyes, brows lowering in thought, but Sarada doesn't give him the chance. "You know she loves you, right? Like, she's properly in love with you, like you should be if you marry somebody."

"'Properly?'" Her father repeats, a hint of amusement in his tone that causes Sarada to clench her fist.

"Yes!"

The glint in his eye fades. "I suppose it makes sense to be in love with someone when you're in a romantic relationship."

"You suppose?"

He catches her eye. "What about when you aren't in a romantic relationship?"

Sarada stares at him. "…huh?"

"Should you be in love with someone you aren't in a romantic relationship with?" he asks. "What about someone you don't have any relationship with?"

"I—" she stammers. "I don't think you'd fall in love with someone you have no relationship with anyway—"

"That isn't true," her father says. "Plenty of people are in love, or claim to be, with people they don't know at all."

Sarada narrows her eyes at him, mind racing. "Well if you never try to correct them, then it isn't totally their fault," she says. "Are you saying my mother was in love with you without knowing anything about you?"

"I can't tell you what your mother felt about me," her father says. "And that's not necessarily what I'm saying. But, we were very young, and it's true that we didn't know much about each other. I definitely didn't view her romantically at the time."

"And after that?" It didn't matter if her father didn't see her mother romantically when they were children, if he fell for her later. Chouchou's parents didn't even meet until they were well into their teenage years.

Her father doesn't speak. "…so you led her on."

"I didn't," he says defensively. Sarada rolls her eyes.

"Then why did you marry her?" she asks again.

He stops walking. Sarada stops too, looking at him. His head is tilted to the side as if trying to see something in the distance, but his eyes are closed. Sarada taps her fingers against her thigh. When he finally opens his eyes and starts moving again, he says, "She asked me to."

Sarada can't tell if he's mocking her or being serious. They turn onto the street where Ichiraku Ramen is. There's a few people sitting inside, and Sarada recognizes some of her mother's friends—Ino, Sai, Temari and Shikamaru. Her father walks by without glancing in.

"She asked you to," Sarada repeats, shifting her gaze away from the two couples. "So? You didn't have to say yes. Saying yes implies that you actually wanted to marry her."

Her father purses his lips.

Sarada runs her fingers through her hair. Everyone else had stories. Proposal stories that were actually romantic—Chouchou's house had a wall covered in family photos, some of her parents' wedding and some not. Her friends knew about how their parents fell in love. Chouchou would tell Sarada stories her mom and dad had told her—about dating and gourmet restaurants and seeing stupid movies. Funny stories. Silly stories. Sarada's mom didn't have any, didn't seem to remember any.

"Mom never really talked about anything that happened before you were married," Sarada says.

"I can tell," he says. "It's okay. She didn't have to."

"Yeah, I guess."

"She asked me to marry her twice," her father says as they turn the corner. "I said no the first time."

He walks so quickly that Sarada wonders how he can even enjoy it.

"But you said yes the second time?" she asks, not needing an answer. "Where did you guys even get married? No one ever answers me when I ask about the wedding or anything."

He pauses and she crosses her arms. "I was traveling alone for a few years," he starts, seeming to get the point. "I wanted some time to think… Sakura tired of waiting for me to return and came after me, and accompanied me on my travels. We married. The papers were actually sent to us by hawk, we just signed them and sent them back."

Sarada pinches the bridge of her nose. "…so there was no wedding."

"Just papers," her father confirms.

She bites her lip, thinking of Chouchou's wall of photos, imagining the glass of every frame shattering. Ino didn't see the wedding, or Shizune, or any of the other people her mother cared about. Just her and Sarada's father alone in the forest. Sarada wonders who witnessed the marriage, if anyone witnessed it at all.

"So you let her travel with you?" Sarada clears her throat. He nods, opens his mouth for a moment, then hesitates and closes it again. She continues, "And I guess you liked traveling with her, since you said yes?"

"Well, I already had other people who I traveled with occasionally," her father says. Sarada raises her eyebrows.

"You mean like the girl with the glasses?"

He gives Sarada a sideways look. "Her," he says. "And Suigetsu, and Juugo. I don't think you know them."

"Does one of them have white hair?"

"Suigetsu," her father confirms. Sarada's lip curls. She had only met him once, the first time she met her father. Suigetsu was the one to do the DNA test, to see if she matched with the glasses girl. Looking back, of all the adults she'd encountered, he was the only one who'd seemed interested at all in helping her uncover the truth. But he was kind of a jerk about it.

"Why do you travel with them?" Sarada asks. "The Seventh wasn't even Hokage at the time, weren't he and Mom good enough for you? They were the team you were put on after graduating from the academy, right? Aren't you guys supposed to be best friends?"

"Naruto is my best friend," her father says. "But…"

He trails off, so Sarada continues. "They aren't even from the Leaf Village, are they? I've never seen them around here—actually, I've never met the one with the glasses in my entire life!"

"No, they're not from here," he says. Sarada presses her lips together in a thin line.

She can feel her cheeks heating up again, so she takes a deep breath and tries to work through everything he's told her in the last half hour or so. Her father used to care about Mom and considered her very important to him, but not romantically. In fact—

"You didn't ever love Mom the way she loves you, did you?" Sarada asks at last. He's quiet, and Sarada looks up at him. He stares straight ahead, an eye hidden behind his hair, and his other one slides to look at Sarada.

"…no," he says. "Not the way she loves me."

Sarada swallows, her mother's image forming in her mind. Her mother putting together the photos in the frame to make them look like a family. Her mother smiling when she talks about him, hugging Sarada, promising that he loves them. Her mother's hurt when Sarada suggested that she wasn't really Sarada's father's wife. That look in her eyes when her fist met the ground, their house coming down, because she loved him so much. Because she wanted him to love them.

Sarada feels her eyes sting again. Her father says nothing, doesn't offer a comforting arm, and she wishes that things were the way they were before. When she didn't know anything about him and still thought he might be wonderful. When she could go to her mother for comfort in moments like this.

Sarada sniffs, and asks her father if they can go back. He agrees, and they turn to walk to his apartment, the implication that the discussion will resume tomorrow remaining silent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarada walks around her dad's bedroom and not-nosily investigates everything in sight.

Her dad’s apartment only has one small bedroom with one small bed. He pulls a futon from his closet, struggling to lodge it onto his shoulder, and carries it out into the living room.

“I’ll sleep here, you can have my room,” he tells Sarada. She’s fine with this, wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible anyway and get to bed, but instead lingers to help him set the futon up before going into his room and shutting the door behind her.

The walls are totally bare. Sarada had expected to see boxes from recently moving in, but her father’s either unpacked everything or found some other place to store them. There’s a low bed at the centre of the wall across from her, a wardrobe on the left wall, and a desk on the right wall. His covers are black, and he doesn’t have a mirror anywhere. She walks over to his desk to get a better look at it. 

Her father does have some framed photos. There’s one of Team Seven—the same one that her mother has, where he and the Seventh look angry and her mom is giving the camera a bright smile. The corner of Sarada’s lip twitches upward— Mom was adorable as a kid. She shifts her gaze back to her father, whose lip is drawn in a tight line, glaring like standing for the photo was some terrible slight against him. He scowled this way at the Seventh when they faced the Shins, too. Maybe it’s just a thing between them.

That seems a little strange, to be annoyed with your best friend all the time, but Sarada decides not to press the idea too much in her head. Her father _is_ strange. It’d be strange if his relationship with the Seventh _weren’t_ strange. 

There’s also a collage frame like the one she and her Mom used to have before it broke when their house came down. The one she’d found the photo of her father with the girl in the glasses and the others in, in fact—

She looks away from the collage frame for a moment and yes, there it is, the exact photo, in its own frame. She reaches for it, hands trembling, and tries to hold it steadily as she studies their expressions again, one by one. Sarada’s barely taken in her father’s dead-eyed frown when her hands are shaking too much and she fears she might drop it on the floor, so she replaces it on the desk.

Maybe she shouldn’t be doing this, she thinks, but her father was the one who let her stay in this room and he put the pictures on his desk where she could see them, it wasn’t like she was rummaging through his drawers.

She takes a deep breath and moves over by the door where she left her luggage, unzipping it and pulling out her pajamas. After changing and neatly folding her clothes and placing them in the suitcase, she takes out her cell phone and sets her glasses down on the desk. She moves over to the bed, fluffing up her father’s pillow so she can lean against it while she talks to her mom. 

Maybe she should’ve said goodnight back to her father when he said it to her.

She holds the phone to her ear, waiting for her mom to pick up.

“Sarada?” her mom answers.

“Mom!” Sarada stretches her legs out over the blanket. “How are you?”

It’s such a relief to hear her voice and Sarada doesn’t really know why.

“I’m good, honey, how are _you_?” Mom asks. “How’s it going? How’s Dad? Are you having fun? What’d you guys do—?”

“I can only answer one question at a time, Mom,” Sarada says, feeling a bit hypocritical. She wonders if her father is listening outside the door and lets her gaze drift to the window to push the thought from her mind. “I’m good, we just walked around the Village pretty much.”

No need to talk about all the yelling. 

“That sounds nice, especially because he isn’t here very often,” her mom replies. “He must’ve enjoyed getting to see everything.”

“Yeah,” Sarada agrees, curling her knees to her chest again. Her father’s pillows aren’t very comfortable.

“What else did you do?” Mom asks. “Did you talk about anything?”

“Um, yeah,” Sarada says. “We talked about…” 

Her father told her that he’d never loved Sarada’s mom the way she loved him.

Sarada bites her lip.

“About…?” her mom prompts.

“I dunno, lots of stuff,” Sarada says into the phone. 

“Well, that’s good to hear. It’s really important to me that you have a good relationship with your father.” 

“I don’t know if I’d call it a good relationship,” Sarada sighs. “But it’s… a relationship.”

“He can be kind of tough,” Mom sympathizes. “But… well, you just have to keep holding on, you know?”

“I guess…”

She searches the room instinctively for something she can get a glimpse of her own face in, but remembers there aren’t any mirrors.

“He fed you, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarada says. “He cooked.”

“Was it any good?”

“It was really good,” Sarada answers honestly, glad her mom had asked an easy question.

“I wouldn’t know, it’s been a long time for me,” her mom laughs.

Sarada stifles a yawn with her hand, the exhaustion of the day finally starting to settle in on her. “I’m… really tired, Mom,” she says. “I think I’m gonna go to bed now.”

“Okay,” her mom replies. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, don’t forget to call me, all right?"

“I won’t.”

“Good. Have fun with Dad.”

“I’ll try.”

They say their goodbyes and Sarada hangs up, settling down into the bed and closing her eyes.

When she wakes the next morning, she’s pleased to find that her back isn’t sore. She doesn’t know why she expected it to be, since she’s had to sleep in less comfortable bedding for missions before, but maybe it was the fact that it was a stiff mattress on a bed in a home and not a temporary situation. It’s still bright out today, and she gets out from under the black blanket, which has gotten too hot under the sun’s glare.

She stretches, and means to head to the suitcase to get a daytime outfit, but ends up at her father’s desk again, staring at the photos. In her distraction at the photo of the girl with the glasses, she hadn’t gotten around to perusing the rest of what he chose to display on this desk.

There’s a faded sepia photo in a glossy black frame, and Sarada picks up her glasses to get a better look. It looks like a family photo—a real family photo, two adults standing close to a child with spiky black hair she recognizes as her father’s from his older pictures. She takes him in, so short he barely comes up to the man on his right’s elbow and a few inches below the woman’s shoulder. He’s smiling, but Sarada sees it more in his eyes than in his mouth, and the woman—his mother’s—hand is on his shoulder, and Sarada’s eyes sweep up to look at her. She’s wearing the same smile. The man looks less friendly, mouth drawn down in a frown, his eyes heavy-lidded and arms crossed. He doesn’t look mean, though, with relaxed eyebrows and a deliberation in his look that makes Sarada think this was probably his best attempt at a smile.

There’s one more person in the photo, standing off to the mother’s side, like he'd wandered into the photo by mistake, or was forced to stand for it and didn’t want to be associated with the others. Sarada covers him with her thumb for a moment, finding that the photo looked just as complete without him in it—a happy family, with a young son who adored his parents, a stern but kind father, and loving mother—then uncovers him again. He's taller than Sarada’s father, his shoulders tense while everyone else in the photo—even the unsmiling father’s—a relaxed. His brows are drawn downwards as if in concentration, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Sarada doesn’t have any idea who he might be.

She puts the photo down thoughtfully. She’ll come back to that one. Her father promised to answer her questions, after all, and there were several surfacing in her mind.

The collage frame is the only one left on the desk, with four little slots, and she picks it up. All the photos in the frame are of _her_ , two of them from when she was a baby and two of them from the last year. She recognizes all the pictures. Her home has the same baby photos on display: one where she’s probably a newborn, wrapped in a bundle atop a pillow; and one where she’s a little older, being held in someone’s arms—probably her mom’s. The more recent ones are pictures the Seventh had taken of her on his phone. She didn’t really know what they were for at the time, he’d been snapping photos of their whole team at a dinner Boruto’s family invited them to following the Chuunin Exams. Sarada’s mom had been there, but her father was away, as usual. Apparently the Seventh sent the photos to her father, who went through the trouble having them printed and put into this frame.

She supposes by the fact that he didn’t recognize her upon seeing her for the first time that no one had bothered sending him any photos of her between now and when he left the Village for his twelve-year-long mission. Maybe he asked specifically for photos of her after they met again, after he realized he didn’t really have any apart from the two taken shortly after her birth.

She sets the frame down, unsure of what to make of it, and goes to make his bed before scanning the room one more time.

Sarada wants to be _out_ of it. Despite the bareness, looking to the desk and seeing the frames even from a distance, knowing what pictures they hold—it gave this space some air of personality. _His_ personality. It feels strange to be in it, surrounded by it, when he isn’t here, in some part because she doesn’t want to be near him, and in some part because it feels intrusive, even though she has the right to know her father.

But if she leaves, she’ll have to face him again in person, and the fear of emotional exhaustion leers over her. She can’t stay here, though, in the midst of his belongings and memories.

So she leaves. It’s only one more day, and then her life can be normal again—at least until next weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It is summer now, so I can work on this more regularly again. I don’t think Sarada’s going to be very happy to find out that her father has a brother that nobody thought was important enough to tell her about. Not much happened here, sorry, but anyway thanks for reading after such a long hiatus (relative to fic writers I read it wasn’t that long but I still feel bad) haha.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarada asks Sasuke about the pictures on his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat here mulling over what to write as a note for fifteen minutes, but for once, I don’t really have anything to add.

Breakfast is already on the table when Sarada leaves her room, and her father thinks that a nod works as a substitute for a normal morning greeting, but Sarada doesn’t mind this and nods back. Her father has opened the windows, letting in both heat and small breezes, but most prominently the chirping of birds that works as a backdrop to their quiet eating. Her father has made poached eggs served in a sauce, pickled vegetables, and a small bowl of rice topped with flaked fish for each of them. It occurs to her that he’s quite traditional, but the food is hot and savory. She can’t tell if he eats this way every day or if he’s doing it for her, but her mother could barely make hard-boiled eggs let alone poached ones.

When they’re done eating, dishes clean and put away, he walks over to the window and rests his hand on the sill as he stares outside. “Sleep well?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sarada says. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

This reply gets on her nerves, and she could look into why, but it’s such a small thing that she decides to just let it go. “I saw the pictures in your room.”

He gives her a sideways look. Sarada chews her cheek. They really hadn’t helped anything. She already had so many questions to ask and all they did was give her more. Her father’s face is blank, but his lowered brows give his concentration away as he waits for her to continue.

Maybe she shouldn’t’ve brought this up, instead focusing on the questions about her mother and his relationship, on his absence. But those questions made her angry—they were specific to her life, with concrete effects on it, and the photographs were distant. Talking about them might be less… harrowing, than bringing up her mother.

“The ones of you when you were little,” she elaborates. “The one with your team—we have the same one at home.”

He nods. “Naruto has that one too." 

“Right…” She’s seen it there, on display in Boruto’s house with other photos of his family. Now that she considers it, there’s a lot of photos of the Seventh in Boruto’s house, but not many photos of him with the rest of his family. “And the other one. With you, um. You looked really young, with three people that kind of look like you. Was that your family?”

Her father moves away from the window, watching her face carefully. “Yes, that’s my family." 

“What happened to them?”

He raises his eyebrows at her, like it was a stupid question to ask, and she crosses her arms. “Look, no one told me anything.”

“Well, they died,” he says. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t,” Sarada says. “Mom didn’t tell me, and I didn’t meet _her_ parents until three years ago when I finally got her to tell me their address and went to visit them myself. They’re alive and I never knew about them, and you’re alive and I never knew about you, so I—”

“You didn’t meet her parents until three years ago?” he interrupts.

“Exactly,” Sarada continues without pause. “And she didn’t go with me." 

“But… why?”

Sarada glares at him. “Why do you care? You’re divorced now and you don’t have the right to criticize Mom. It’s none of your business what she does and doesn’t do.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but nods. “You’re right,” he says. “But… it’s still strange to me that nobody told you they died.”

“Well, I mean,” Sarada sighs. “Everything I know about the Uchiha clan, I know from my classmates. Adults never answer anything, and all the kids ever say is that our clan is good at everything and that it’s a good thing I’m an Uchiha. They talk about the clan like it’s some big thing with a reputation, but the only ones I know are me, Mom, and y—oh, I guess not Mom anymore.”

She frowns, gaze dropping to the floor. Her father says nothing, the birds filling the silence once more. Sarada takes a breath. “Anyway. All I mean is that it’s not my fault I don’t know anything.”

“I know it isn’t,” her father says. “I’m just… surprised.”

“It’s not like you were any help,” she snaps and he lowers his head in resignation. She licks her lips. “Who’s the other boy?” He looks up. “Your cousin? He looks like you, but not like he’s part of the family.”

Her father’s forehead creases. “Not like he’s…” he repeats, trailing off. “That’s my brother. My older brother.”

Her eyes widen, eyebrows raising high on her forehead. “You have a brother?” she asks indignantly. Sarada’s father nods, but her mind is already elsewhere, back in her father’s bedroom reimagining the photo in her mind—this boy, standing awkwardly next to his mother, like he didn’t want to be in the photo, maybe he was like Boruto and thought he was too cool to stand and smile. Her father’s older brother. They would have played together, the elder helping the younger with his homework, Sarada’s father and him sitting around a table with their parents for dinner and talking about the kinds of things that families talk about. He was someone her father had grown up with, not a distant figure like parents or even grandparents could be. Father, mother, and the young brothers—a family, standing for a photo in different poses as one, her father and her— 

“…My uncle,” Sarada breathes. “You had a brother, and no one bothered to tell me? All this time, I’ve had an uncle, and—“

“He’s dead too, Sarada,” her father cuts her off with an edge in his voice she hasn’t heard since she met him that first time in the forest.

She presses on, “For how long? Before I was born or after? Did he exist and you just never—“

“He’s been dead since years before your birth,” her father answers. “He never could have been an uncle to you.”

“What _happened_ to them?” Sarada tugs at her hair. “Why are they all dead? I get that you were a shinobi family, but aren’t the Uchiha supposed to be great and talented?” 

Her father’s face is very pale, pointed toward the window with distant eyes that tell Sarada he’s not really looking anything. 

“Why were they so famous, anyway? Was your family the entire clan?”

He shakes his head quickly, his lips pressed tightly together, looking so drained that Sarada almost feels a twinge of guilt for asking about it, for asking him to recall details of a family that he lost.

But it’s her family _too._ As much as she wishes to cut her father from her life, he is her father. They share a surname, and a clan. She carries around that reputation, and people immediately single her out for her dark hair and eyes, for the crest her mother had sent to seamstresses to sew into her clothes. She has to deal with the questions, with the expectations, and her father got to wander around in a forest for years far away from all of it, from the whispering and the accusations that started at him as soon as he stepped back in. She is just as much a part of the clan as he is, she has to deal with what comes with being part of the clan like he does, and she shouldn’t have to feel guilty for her curiosity about a subject that really _does_ affect her.

“… are they all dead?”

He nods, and grips the windowsill, still not looking at her, his knuckles white.

“I… I don’t understand…” Sarada shakes her head. She always thought the Uchiha were just… a really small clan, that for some reason everyone was obsessed with. But no one would ever tell her the history, her mother saying that her father was better equipped to explain it to her, but here she is talking to her father and he looks like he might actually pass out.

“How did _no one_ tell you,” he says in a shaky voice. “ _No one_. Not Sakura, not Naruto, not—”

“Why were you relying on _them_ to tell me about _your_ family?” she exclaims, tiring of his apparent inability to take responsibility for his own actions. “They’re _your_ —”

“But everybody _knows,”_ he exclaims. “Everyone! And they never stop talking about it, and not a single one thought to tell you? They left it to _me?_ So I’d have to—?”

Her father clamps his mouth shut and Sarada clenches her fist, “If you were _here_ you could’ve explained everything to me a long time ago! Instead you went off messing around and leaving _important_ things that _you_ should be telling me about to everyone else! You promised you were gonna answer my questions, and now I’m asking them to you and you’re just complaining about how no one else—”

“I’m not _complaining,_ I just…” He falls silent.

“Just…?” Sarada prompts.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.”

She pushes air hard out through her nose, and he doesn’t look at her.

“How many were there?” Sarada asks. “In the clan?”

“… over two hundred.”

Sarada’s eyes widen, lips parting involuntarily. “T—two…”

Her father is quiet.

“What the hell?” is the only thing that Sarada can think to say. “Over _two hundred_?!”

“Yes.”

“That’s bigger than Chouchou’s!”

He nods.

She stares, wanting to grab her father by the front of his cloak and shake him. “Are you lying?”

“Why would I lie to you about that?” he asks. “I already promised you that I wouldn’t, and it’d do me far better for you not to know about it.”

“ _Why_?” She slams her fist into the wall beside the window, white dust falling from where it connects to the ceiling. Her father jumps. She rips her hand out from the hole she’s made. “Why is it so bad for you if I actually _know_ things!”

“It’s not bad if you _know_ things!” he insists, his voice raised too now. “It’s bad that you don’t _already_ know this! And it’s not your fault that you don’t!”

“Yeah, because it’s _yours!_ ” she shouts back. “Why can’t you just tell me? Was it that bad?”

Surely they weren’t all wiped out at once, right? How could something like that happen in this Village?

“They… don’t even teach you this at school?” he asks weakly.

“No!”

Why would they? Was it really so monumental, such a big part of the Leaf Village’s history, that her father—best friend of the Hokage, who could just _tell_ him that they don’t even learn about the Village’s history in much detail at all— expected it would be part of their school’s curriculum? 

“… Were they all taken out at once?” she asks at last. It’s the most probable explanation, going off of her father’s cues. For so many people to have died during her father’s lifetime and before her birth… even though she doesn’t want to think about something so horrific…

Her father heaves a long sigh, giving one last look out the window before he drops his hand from the ledge, shaking, and turns to the sofa. Sarada follows him slowly, her stomach sinking with the realization that she punched a hole in her father’s wall. He’d probably have to pay for that.

Well, he could just use the money he got from the twelve-year mission that he went on. She’s sure it was worth the cash, since it wasn’t worth the time.

“Yes,” he says, sitting down, giving a weary glance to his wall before looking back at Sarada. She sits too, expecting a long story. All taken out at once…

“Wait, then…” she stares at him. “But… then…" 

His lips don’t move. 

“Then…”

All taken out at once.

Her father, the only one still standing, her _father,_ a threat to the village—

“Did—did you—” she stammers, and suddenly she’s overcome with tremors, and the door—the door, it’s locked, isn’t it? She _knew_ she didn’t feel right about it being locked—

_”What?”_

“Well, why else are you alive then?” she demands, watching as any remaining colour in his face drains completely.

“I didn’t— Sarada, no, absolutely not, I—” His eyes are so wide they look like they might drop from his head. “ _I_ did _not kill_ the Uchiha!”

“Then how come no one ever talks about it?” she retorts. “Not because the Seventh likes you? You’ve raised your sword at _me_ before—” 

“Sarada, _stop it._ ”

She looks at him, still shaking, and there are lines creased in his face that Sarada didn’t even know could be creased, his fist clenched tightly, and he’s shaking even harder than she is.

Sarada brings her fingers to her lips, the weight of her accusation sinking in. Her father… his entire clan was terminated at once for whatever reason, by whatever force, and she just accused _him_ of killing them all single-handedly. She knows for a fact that he is capable of it even if the Uchiha were as strong as she was always hearing, his powers are close to on par with the Seventh’s and the Seventh’s are on par with the gods’, but if it really wasn’t her father who did it and he’d lost his entire clan sometime before she was born…

“I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It’s— I…” he trails off.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it’s okay.”

…Maybe she should just leave him alone. Ask about this another time. She still doesn’t know what actually happened, but right now it doesn’t really seem like the most important thing anymore. 

She hates that she’s taking her father’s feelings so seriously right now because she doesn’t want to extend him any empathy, but she _did_ cross a rather serious line, no matter how angry she is with him.

“You can tell me what actually happened later, if that’s better,” she says, glancing over to the wall where the hole is.

“I can’t,” he says.

“… so you’ll tell me now?” she looks back at him, eyebrow raised quizzically.

“No, I mean. I can’t tell you what actually happened.”

“Today?” 

“At all." 

She stares at him. “Why the hell not?”

No matter how she makes him feel he still owes her answers, he _promised_ her answers—

“It’s my… my family,” he stammers. 

“I’m your family _too.”_

He freezes, and Sarada folds her arms. “Did you forget?”

Her father shakes his head. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I can’t…” he hesitates, his eyes focusing on a point behind her for a few moments before he continues. “I can’t talk about the annihilation of my clan.” 

She thinks of the photograph, the smiling mother, the stern father, the lost looking brother—all dead, all at once, just like that, her father the only one left… for some reason.

“… too sensitive?” she guesses. 

Sarada didn’t really think her father was the type, but then, she has no idea what type of person her father is.

His head hangs low, bangs covering his eyes completely as they point toward the floor, and he looks so… guilty, and distraught, and _human,_ and Sarada wants to push him up by the shoulders so he’s looking straight at her, she feels almost sorry but some part of her wants to know why he never bows his head for her, for her mother, why the divorce and his failure at parenting her isn’t as hard for him to talk about as this.

But maybe that just means it’s particularly horrific. 

“… Okay. That’s fine,” she says, hoping that this is the last time she has to show him leniency. “I’ll just… ask someone else, I guess.”

He said that everybody knows… someone in this Village _besides_ himself would just have to be willing to give her some answers.

She looks back at him, who’s sat up, eyes still lowered to the floor.

It occurs to her that, so far, this is the only time that he’s denied her.

**Author's Note:**

> This one’s gonna be a couple chapters long but nothing huge. The first weekend with Sasuke is going to be very awkward is pretty much what I’m thinking right now… they’ve got a lot to work through. This goes with the Ichiraku Ramen is Always There For You fic and is part of the Divorced!Sasuke AU I’ve got going in my head.


End file.
